Meadow Beyond Sunset and Stars
by GataFairy
Summary: A story of Effie Trinket, rebel, and how she survives the horrors of war. Rated M for language and certain situations.
1. Rebels

**Acknowledgements:** S, for listening to me complain about all the things I remembered as I wrote this. R, for reading this before anyone else and always being honest. Everyone who was so wonderful to me in regards to _As the Sky_, for making me smile so sincerely for the first time in so long. My muse, for giving me such indescribable joy._  
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* * *

_i._

A reputable bar isn't Haymitch's preferred place to meet, because despite the vast collection of high quality liquor and spirits available, it's crowded with Capitol fops who are either attempting to seduce over-colored ladies or other fops, or flaunting their own greatness (which, if you ask Haymitch, is really nothing more than a load of bull). But he isn't in a position to pick rendezvous points. It's the seventy-second Hunger Games, and the plans for a possible rebellion are in exactly the same place as they were five years ago: nowhere.

Which is precisely why he feels that listening to Heavensbee's updates is a waste of time. Still, Heavensbee is paying for his drinks as long as they're here, so Haymitch humors his fellow (would-be) rebel. Heavensbee is in the middle of a tangent about possible future arenas when Haymitch nearly chokes on his drink.

"Have I said something particularly shocking?" asks Heavensbee.

Haymitch blinks hard, because surely his eyes are deceiving him. The ghastly apparition in chartreuse and violet approaching them shouldn't be _here_, of all places.

"Now, Haymitch, if I've told you one thing since meeting you, it's to mind your manners. Staring is unbelievably rude!"

And his ears are deceiving him, too. They must be.

"Ah, Effie!" says Heavensbee, grinning widely. "I wasn't expecting you until later."

"Yes, well, things got a bit too exciting," Effie answers, adjusting an earring as she takes a seat at Heavensbee's other side. "I thought I'd get out for a bit."

"This isn't really your scene, though," says Haymitch, his voice finally under his control again. "Out-of-the-way Capitol bars and fancy escorts such as yourself don't really mix." She purses her lips, and he adds, "Besides, aren't you supposed to be somewhere? Bothering the tributes? Fucking your boyfriend?"

Effie narrows her eyes at him, taking a deep breath. She looks ready to contest that, but instead she turns to Heavensbee. "That reminds me: Seneca was awarded the promotion. I'm sorry, Plutarch."

"That explains why I haven't heard." Heavensbee shakes his head. "Thank you, but it's all right. Better him than any of the others."

"He says it was very close."

"I'm sure it was." Sighing, Heavensbee shrugs. "Alas. It could be worse."

"Celebration sex," Haymitch says, nodding. "Too much for you, was it?" He sees her eyebrow twitch, but she holds her ground. Damn her. He wants her the hell out already. No amount of free liquor is worth spending time with her outside of their required interactions.

"Have you still not realized how unnecessary it is for you to be quite so vulgar?" Effie shakes her head.

"Oh, definitely." Haymitch gives her a fake grin. "But I do it because I enjoy it."

"You really shouldn't be so crude to her," Heavensbee says.

"Thank you, Plutarch. You see, Haymitch? That is how a gentleman behaves. You could stand to learn a thing or two from him."

"Are we done here?" he asks, setting his glass down on the table.

"Just about," answers Heavensbee. "Only another thing or two: I've been speaking to someone in Eight who shows promise."

Haymitch frowns. Something is wrong with this picture. Heavensbee is discussing things that could get them worse than executed while the very embodiment of everything they want to destroy is sitting right next to him.

"You mean another flaky escort?" Haymitch prompts.

"Don't be silly, Haymitch," Effie cuts in, her yellow-green lips pulling back in a grin that looks nothing short of manic. "Domitia has been nothing short of _excellent_ as Eight's escort all these years. No one in their right mind would seek to replace her."

"A new mayor, then."

Effie giggles, lifting a gloved hand to cover her lips as she exchanges a glance with Heavensbee. "Oh, goodness, now I see why you looked so surprised to see me here early, Plutarch. I should have known."

"Yes, well…"

"What am I missing here?" Haymitch interrupts. He can feel a headache coming along, and for once it has nothing to do with his bad habit.

"Nothing, Haymitch. Nothing at all." Effie shakes her head, frowning. "Not _here_. Back in the penthouse, though, you are missing the opportunity to _do your job_."

"Because you leaving them alone is so professional."

"It's still light out, and they are with their prep teams."

"So I don't need to be there right now."

Rolling her eyes, Effie stands. "I'm going," she proclaims, placing a hand on the exaggerated swell of her hip. In that color, she looks like a warped light bulb from the waist down, but knowing these people, that's probably exactly what she's going for. "You had better be there in time for the parade."

"Finally," Haymitch says as she starts to walk away. "Thought I'd never see the back of you."

She whirls to face him, glaring, and he has to admire her impeccable balance on those pointy, likely deadly shoes. "Do you know something? I think celebratory sex sounds like a _fabulous_ idea."

With that, she marches off. Haymitch sits in stunned silence while Plutarch stirs his electric blue drink with the ridiculous zigzagging straw that came with it.

"Are you sure that was Effie? Effie _Trinket_?"

"Yes," Plutarch answers. "And I believe you upset her enough to think up a very interesting and possibly somewhat nuanced barb in response."

Haymitch scoffs at the implications of that. He's perfectly capable of finding a willing woman. A bit of time spent grooming, and then he can bank on the lingering charm of his being a victor, and a Quarter Quell victor, no less. He just doesn't want to. There's no point, not when he still dreams of his long dead girlfriend and wakes up in a cold sweat, her name spilling from his lips in a soft, broken plea.

"Well," he says, shaking his head, "so much for having the Head Gamemaker on our side."

Plutarch shrugs. "It could be far worse, believe me."

"Like when you started to tell me something with her right there?" Haymitch doesn't wait for an answer, simply downs the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass on the table. "Is that everything?"

"Everything pressing, yes," Heavensbee says, nodding. "Oh, there is one more thing: look for blue beetles."

Haymitch stares at the other man for a moment, arching an eyebrow. "Is that the best you people could come up with?"

"Beetles are in style," Heavensbee explains. "But blue ones aren't quite so common yet."

Sighing, Haymitch stands. "I have tributes awaiting my wisdom." He sways a bit when he says so, but he stays upright. That's the important part. "Blue beetles. I'll keep an eye out."

Back in the penthouse later that evening, fourteen-year-old Lilac rushes to her room in tears, eighteen-year-old Boris is red-faced as he heads down the hall for a shower, and Effie sends the Avoxes to get started on bringing in dinner. Haymitch considers it an accomplishment that he didn't spend the parade blind drunk, but of course no one will appreciate that. They don't understand, and they never will.

He has an Avox go get him a drink and settles down on the couch while he waits. The relative silence before Effie makes them all watch the recaps is short but precious, and he fully intends to be unconscious when the tributes come back.

"Well, that went less than well."

Haymitch rubs his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. This woman possesses an uncanny talent for bothering him when he most wants to be alone.

"Still, they could have been worse." She sits not too far from him, pursing her lips. "They could have been more like _you_."

"They were _naked_ out there," he reminds her, suppressing a shiver at the idea of it. His costume for the parade in his year had been downright hideous, true, but at least he had been allowed the privilege of being clothed.

"They were miners covered in dust! It was—different. Unique! They will be remembered."

Her moment of hesitation gets a brief laugh out of him, and as he shakes his head, it turns into a sneer. "Yeah, I'm sure the sponsors will just be _dying_ to send Lilac gifts. Because, you know, crying little girls make for the best victors."

"It worked for Johanna Mason," she reminds him.

"Lilac Carter is not Johanna Mason," he says sternly. "Don't even bother hoping she'll make it out of the arena."

She gives a delicate snort as an Avox comes to deliver his drink. He takes it, giving a quick nod to the servant, and takes a sip.

"You are impossible," says Effie, shaking her head.

The glittering pins and accessories in her hair and on her dress sparkle in the light of the elaborate lamps overhead and along the walls. Perhaps it's the boredom and exhaustion mingling with the alcohol already in his system, or maybe the new fashion is to be this obnoxiously shiny, but he swears he sees tiny rainbows in her hair from that ridiculous pin.

"Prisms?" he asks, shaking his head. Why the hell not ask her when there is nothing else to do? She might give him something to insult her for. It could be fun seeing how quickly he can get rid of her.

"Pardon? Oh." She touches the pin in her wig, the tiny, crystal-like beads he is staring at. "No. Not intentionally, at least. Lucky me! But _these_—" She lifts a few cerulean curls away, revealing her ear. "These are new earrings. What do you think?"

"Ugly."

"You haven't even looked at them!" He shrugs, and she rolls her eyes. "At least humor me, Haymitch."

"Fine," he mutters, but he takes a drink first. He'll need all the help he can get to deal with her before the tributes come back. Inhaling deeply, he lifts his gaze to the abominations.

He nearly drops his glass.

"Are those blue beetles?"

She nods, blissfully oblivious to the fact that he is still staring. "Don't you just love them?"

"What? Yeah. Sure." Of all the styles and designs at her disposal, she'd had to pick blue beetles.

"I would have preferred something floral, but—" She shrugs. "The choice was not mine to make."

He sits there for what feels like hours, calculating as best he can what the odds are that she would have randomly picked that particular pair of earrings in the few hours it's been since Plutarch Heavensbee told him about the blue beetles. And what does she mean that the choice wasn't hers to make? Had they been a gift?

"They're still ugly," he says finally, for lack of anything better to say.

She shrugs again, adjusting one of the beetles. "Tell that to Plutarch." Shooting him a grin, she stands. "I must go make sure Lilac is all right. There's so much to do with her before her interview!"

As Effie hobbles off to Lilac's room, Haymitch processes what has just transpired and decides he must have a few very serious words with Heavensbee, because there is no way on earth this is right.

* * *

_ii._

"Go without me," Haymitch slurs, swatting the air where one of two Effies stares pointedly at him. There's no reason to go to a viewing party or be anywhere near the sponsors when Boris has just died of a nasty infection after two days of agony. Lilac, at least, was killed at the Cornucopia, beheaded with a top of the line axe as she stupidly reached for a backpack. The one piece of advice he'd given them was to stay the hell away from the Cornucopia, and she hadn't listened.

Not his fault.

But now that they are simply extras to the deals and advertisements of the mentors whose tributes are still in the running, Haymitch wants nothing more than to board a train home and bid this nightmare good-bye until next year.

"This is public relations one-oh-one, Haymitch," Effie trills—or maybe she doesn't, but that's sure as hell what it sounds like to him. She's like some stupid bird, flitting around in a cage full of vicious cats, tempting fate.

No way she's one of them. No way she's involved in the resistance.

"Take your murderer boyfriend with you. Take an Avox, for fuck's sake, just _fuck off_."

His drunkenness has dulled his senses better than he's hoped for, but not well enough, unfortunately. After a few seconds, her cheek begins to sting where her hand made none too gentle contact with it. Inhaling deeply, he narrows his eyes and focuses on her until he sees one of her, a livid atrocity in too many bright shades of orange.

"Do _not_ speak to me that way," she demands.

He scoffs. Already he can feel the bile burning in his stomach, but no, it's too soon. He _has_ to keep everything down for now, because he has finally provoked her enough that he might be able to get out of doing anything at all for the rest of the Games.

"You don't even match," he says. "Ugliest fucking earrings I've ever seen."

"Don't play the fool," she hisses. She readjusts a peach-colored curl, lifts another hand to fidget with one of said earrings. "For once, it doesn't suit you."

The shift in her tone clicks with him a few seconds later, how she has gone from the usual angry to a lower, more grounded enraged. In his state, the fact that he has noticed at all impresses him, but he holds back part of the cocky grin he gives. He is treading unknown territory, and this is a story he wants to live to tell.

"You must have figured it out by now," she tells him, almost whispers, as she steps closer. "So just accept the truth. And don't _ever_ talk to me that way again."

He laughs, and she flinches back, away from the stench on his breath.

"You think you're such a brilliant man, don't you," she continues, shaking her head. "You don't know the half of it all. And do you know something? If you would just _listen_ to me, you might be better off."

"Do you really want to parade your drunken mentor in front of all those people tonight?" he asks, chuckling. This is all so hilarious, so absolutely insane. "You have shit to gain from it."

"And _you_ have everything to lose if you stay here."

"Is that a threat?" He tries to keep a straight face, but it's impossible, and he snickers as she shakes her head.

"Sometimes I wonder why he bothers with you," she says, sighing.

"Smarts," he tells her, tapping his head.

Rolling her eyes, she fidgets with her earring again. "Just go to the party. Show up late, I don't care at this point a long as you don't make a fool of us both while you're there. Just go for a little while. It will be _crawling_ with people you simply _must_ get to know. After all, you never can tell who will be helpful to you later on, can you?"

She gives him her trademark would-be dazzling grin and heads off, taking the widest steps her awful skirt will allow. He listens to the _click-clack_ of her heels until it fades away down the hall outside the penthouse.

* * *

_iii._

All the aggravation of another Games dealing with a drunken, belligerent Haymitch melts away when she sees the look on his face upon recognizing not only Seneca, but also the tiny decorations on his cuff links. They were her idea, the most subtle way to include the hint of the blue in such a way that it would not detract attention from the red sash he is wearing for his first year as Head Gamemaker.

Effie wishes desperately that her earrings were equipped with image capture software, because nothing will ever be as delightfully amusing as Haymitch's face in this moment, and she wants to treasure it forever.

"Is there something the matter?" asks Seneca, glancing at Effie as if for translation.

It takes all her strength not to laugh. "No, I imagine it's nothing out of the ordinary." She narrows her eyes at Haymitch, the customary response to his inebriated antics, but she cannot help the corners of her eyes from crinkling just a bit in her effort to suppress a grin.

"Just… fashion," Haymitch says, gesturing with his cocktail to Seneca's wrists. "How you people manage to keep up with it all is a f—" He stops short in the face of Effie's now more serious glare. "A phenomenal miracle," he corrects.

Effie grins, satisfied. "It isn't my favorite, either, but one simply _must_ be up to date with the latest trends."

"Of course," Seneca agrees, giving a dazzling smile.

Haymitch chokes a little on his drink.

"Well, I'm glad to see you finally made it," Effie says to him. "Didn't I tell you it would be worth it?"

"And you were right," he says, baring his teeth as he gives an exaggerated grin. "Here's to you." He lifts his glass to her and takes a drink from it. "I'd better go _socialize_."

The acid in his tone only makes her want to laugh in his face, but she is not like that, not like him. She behaves as she must, and she must help him save face. "I'll see you later, then."

He gives her a short bow and walks away, off to find Heavensbee, no doubt. All the better. It isn't her fault Haymitch hasn't figured it out after all these years, and she'll tell him that when he brings it up later.

For now, she must enjoy the party and pretend to take joy in the building excitement of the Games, feign elation at Seneca's departure for the control room because it means there will surely be action onscreen. She watches, standing by Domitia, grinning so hard she forgets how to do anything else as a flash flood drags the boy from One towards the Cornucopia for a showdown with both tributes from Four.

As she watches the blood stain the tributes' clothes, she wishes this will be the last year that innocents are forced to kill or die.


	2. Martyr

_i._

This is the only place Effie wants to be, where his heartbeat is the only thing marking the passage of time and his breathing is the only music she will ever hear. This is where true peace lives, where nothing and no one can touch them, where they are the creators of life and death and everything in between.

Sometimes she thinks she can see that perfect world in the endless blue of his eyes. Distant seashores, lakes reflecting cloudless skies, lazy rivers with flowers on their banks, and all around, a people whose hatred is reserved for the violence of the past, the twisted entertainments of the former ruling class. In this place, their sins are forgiven, and they begin anew.

She comes close to that blameless existence when Seneca traces soft circles on her cheek and says, "After the Games this year, we should go away for a while, take a break from all of this."

Her earrings are not near enough for her to activate them and cloak them in a cocoon of perfect privacy, but they do not need it now. She understands. The demands of their respective jobs are bad enough. The work they do to fight against the institution they pretend to so fervently serve is exhausting in its own right. These moments together are a breath of fresh air, and wouldn't it be wonderful to have a whole day like this, or two days, or perhaps, if they are very lucky, a week?

"Yes, we should. They steal you away from me too often."

"The price we pay for success."

"_This_ is success." She takes his hand and places it on her heart, his palm cool against her skin.

Something shifts in his eyes, a change in the tide, the waves pulling back to make room for something greater. "Some people go their whole lives without knowing this," he tells her, and she is transfixed, holding her breath, waiting.

But then the waters still, and he smiles, and the spell melts away. She breathes it in the air, tastes it on his lips.

This is freedom. This is what they work towards. This is what they wish for all of Panem. But for now, if they seek it, people may find it in moments such as this, in clear blues of never-ending depths, in flower petals on bright green grass, in the precious seconds of contentment that no power can take away.

* * *

_ii._

"They won," Effie breathes, her grip on Haymitch's forearm tightening. She keeps her eyes on the screen as the hovercraft comes for Katniss and Peeta.

It can't be true. Surely someone will shoot one of them and leave only one victor standing. Surely they'll release a mutt or acidic rain. Surely Seneca has not so completely lost his mind as to allow two children to unintentionally trick him into letting them both go back home.

But it is true. She watches them get lifted inside the hovercraft and fly off into the distance; it's all the confirmation she needs.

To her side, both tributes' prep teams begin to clap and cheer, and Effie takes her cue from them, pushing away the thoughts of what this all means to celebrate the fact that both of her beautiful pearls have survived. She lets go of Haymitch's arm, stands, and joins in the chorus of cheers. She grabs Haymitch's hands, tugging him to his feet, and tells him, "They won! They both won!"

He forces a laugh, but in his eyes she reads the same misgivings she's trying desperately to suppress. It cannot be this easy. Something is happening behind the scenes that they are not seeing. Snow must be absolutely furious. The control room must be buzzing with chaos. Seneca—

Effie does not let herself think of him. Right now, she must play the ignorant, happy escort. She nods at Haymitch, saying, "I can hardly believe it either!" She signals to an Avox, tells him to get everyone a round of champagne, and pulls Haymitch over to where the rest of their team is celebrating. She kisses both of Cinna's cheeks, pauses a moment before hugging him so that he knows she is just as worried as he is. When the Avox comes back with a tray of fine glasses for them all, she leads them in a victory toast, their first for days to come.

Haymitch fields the call from the Gamemakers, nodding along at their instructions of where to be and when to be there. Effie breaks away from the celebrants to take notes as he repeats what he is told, and they go to work as soon as the call is ended.

These next days are difficult, and not only because of all the things that must be done. Neither she nor Haymitch can get through to their contacts within the circle of Gamemakers. But they must not dwell, and Effie does not allow herself to worry, not until the victory interview and the coronation have passed and she has seen Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch off at the train station.

On that day, she receives a message from Heavensbee telling her he would like to hand deliver a victory gift to her. She accepts, and in the afternoon of the day of the victors' departure, she adjusts one of her earrings as Heavensbee uncorks a bottle of wine in Effie's elegant kitchen.

"Tell me," she says to him. She already knows, but she cannot accept it, not when there is still the slightest possibility that she might be wrong.

Heavensbee finishes pouring them each a glass, sets the bottle down on the counter, and takes her hands. "I am so sorry, Effie. There was nothing we could do."

She feels her throat tighten and her heart twist, and she hasn't even begun to shake her head when tears spill from her eyes.

"He said to us all, before releasing the mutts, that he had been given an opportunity he couldn't miss," he continues, tightening his hold on her hands just the slightest bit. "We didn't know yet that they would survive, but when the beasts were sent out, he looked at me from across the room, and I understood that he fully intended to take the fall for all of us."

Her tears fall on their joined hands, and she lowers her head as her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs.

"He knew what he was doing, Effie, and he did it anyway. Katniss' burial of the girl from Eleven, the ensuing uprising—it's what we've been waiting for all these years—"

"Stop," she says, sniffing, gripping his hands as if she will slip away if she lets go. Lifting her gaze to his, she forces herself to smile. It comes out as a grimace, but that's just as well. She'd best save her smiles for later, when she must be at her professional best, giddy from her district's unprecedented double victory. "I understand."

She understands, but she doesn't have to like it.

"Just please tell me one thing." She waits until he nods, and she asks, "Would you have done the same if you had been in his place?"

He hesitates a moment, and she feels her heart rip apart. He is very nearly the leader of this underground effort, yet he would lack the bravery to make such a critical decision? She wants to kill him, wants to claw at his face with her long, topaz-studded fingernails until he can't see through the red in his eyes, can't taste or smell anything but the metallic tang of blood. Seneca may have been rash to do what he did, but he did it. He had sacrificed his life for something greater than him, greater than all of them. He had forsaken the promise of seeing the world for which they are working, and he had renounced the future he could have had with her.

And here stands Plutarch Heavensbee, hesitating.

"Yes," he says, after a second that, for Effie, has been a glimpse into eternity. "In such a moment as that, with so little time to think, and knowing all that we do—yes."

Nodding, she pulls back her hands. She lifts one to her face, brushing tears from her cheeks. The effort reminds her that this is all true, that the cause has directly claimed its first life, and she shudders again with the irrepressible force of her grief.

"Please go, Plutarch," she says, quiet but strong.

He says nothing more as he does so, and she stands there as if frozen to the spot until she hears the door shut and lock behind him. That's when her control snaps, a pitiful twig in a violent storm. She sinks to her knees and wraps her arms tight about her body and weeps, angry and fearful and alone, so impossibly, deeply alone.

This is the price to pay for their commitment to liberation, and surely, _surely_ he will not be the last to go. Some unthinking part of her wants to run up to Snow with a knife aimed at his throat. Whether or not she manages to kill him, she'll be taken away. If she's lucky, no matter the result of her attack, Peacekeepers will shoot her on the spot. Surely it is better to die than to survive someone so dear.

But even as the thought focuses her pain, she knows she must not waste what Seneca has given them all. He has given his life so they might continue their work and shine a light upon this dark and desolate nation.

That will have to be enough to numb away the burning of the wasteland slowly expanding in her chest.

* * *

_iii._

"Heavensbee told me."

Effie stops abruptly. They are on the path between Victors Village and the town, safe as can be and in broad daylight. This is the only chance Haymitch will have to talk to her alone until the Games, and given all that has happened—the uprisings, the new symbol, Snow's visit to Katniss a few days ago—he cannot wait that long.

"Yes," she says, and he has to admit, he's impressed at the smile she manages. The rest of her gives her away, stiff from head to toe as if she'll fall apart if she's not perfectly still. But her smile—it's camera ready. "I'm sure he'll make an excellent Head Gamemaker."

"I'm sorry," he says. He does not list why because it would take more time than they have here, but he is sorry for speaking ill of Crane. He is sorry for believing him to be another mindless Capitol dandy with a penchant for killing helpless children, for never stopping to consider, even after discovering where his allegiance lay, that he dipped his hands in their blood because so few others could. Heavensbee is a Gamemaker, too, after all, and Haymitch had stopped resenting him for his crimes years ago. But Crane had angered him far more deeply for reasons Haymitch does not understand, and because of that, Haymitch had crossed far graver lines than those Effie so often reminds him of.

"Thank you," she says, her smile wavering for just a moment, just enough time for him to see it and glimpse the depth of her grief.

He remembers, suddenly, the deaths of his mother and brother, of his girlfriend, three innocents caught up in the bare beginnings of a rebellion effort they might have dreamt of but never believed in. If anyone knows the agony of solitude, it's him. It may have been months since Crane's execution, but in Effie's hands, in how they grip her clipboard until her knuckles turn whiter than the paint on her face, it looks as if it has only been hours.

"We must not squander the opportunities given to us, Haymitch," she tells him, her smile fading as her tone softens and the glow of purpose in her eyes dims with the too immediate memory of what was. "We must not let anything happen in vain."

He nods, though he isn't sure she sees him. She must sense it, though, because she manages a broken smile, the most sincere grin he has ever seen her give. "Besides, nothing will come of my sadness. I can almost hear him saying so, that I must press onwards."

"That's right," Haymitch murmurs. Her hands shift on the clipboard, no doubt because her joints have begun to ache from the force they've exerted in her desperation to maintain control. He stares at her slender fingers and forces himself to stay as he is, to not display any sort of sympathy beyond what he already has, because she cannot even suspect what she doesn't know, what Haymitch knows, that Crane had consulted Heavensbee on the purchase of a ring only days before the Games had begun.

Haymitch tells himself he is keeping Crane's final secret solely out of a wish to keep Effie from shattering beyond repair. Why else could it be, really, but to ensure that she will be able to continue doing as splendidly as she has done for the resistance?

"It was foolish to think we would all make it out unscathed," she whispers, and he swears she is telling herself, not him. Certainly he already knows this, but she with her charmed life, she who has never known this sort of pain—these words are a balm for her own wounds. His have long since scarred.

"It's never wrong to hope," he offers, a meager piece of comfort.

His words seem to wake her, and she nods, inhaling sharply, straightening again. "Everyone in the Capitol is so excited to see Katniss and Peeta again, you have no idea!" She smiles at him, vibrant again. She will fool everyone except him, because he has seen the change in her eyes, how the brilliant blue of them is paler now for the last piece of innocence that has been ripped away from her.

He follows her as she goes on about the Victory Tour, discussing the schedule with him as if it is the single most important thing in the world. It's the only certain thing either of them has right now, that much is true, because she is pulling herself together, and he is much more involved in the resistance than even he imagined he would be in his lifetime.

Crane has given them something unspeakably precious. To waste it would be to do his sacrifice the greatest dishonor and commit an unforgivable offense against those who mourn him.

And Haymitch already has enough guilt on his shoulders.


	3. Torment

**TRIGGER WARNING:** torture, rape.

* * *

_i._

"What are you _doing_ here?" Effie hisses, wide-eyed. "It's late. You should be passed out in your bed!"

Haymitch shuts her compartment door, unfazed. "I have something to say to you."

"Be quick," she tells him, crossing her arms.

That's when he notices she is ready to go to bed. No make-up, no outlandish clothing, no wig. Her silk nightgown sparkles in the overhead lights, and he wonders, briefly, if it's been dipped in crushed jewels.

He clears his throat. "I told Katniss off for snapping at you," he lies.

"She already apologized."

"Good. She'd better."

"What do you want?"

He hesitates, holding his breath a moment, then says, "To see how you are."

"Oh." The fight leaves her eyes right away at that, and she looks elsewhere a moment, at the golden wig by the mirror. "I'm fine, thank you."

He walks farther into the room, stopping at the other end of the dresser, a safe enough distance away, he guesses.

"How are Katniss and Peeta?"

He shrugs. "About as well as you'd expect."

Biting her lips, she taps her fingers against her elbows. "How are you?"

He takes that as his cue, closing the distance between them until he is just in front of her. Without her awful shoes, she is just a little bit taller than Katniss, and that makes him worry, inexplicably, as if the person about to walk into the arena is standing right in front of him.

He takes her hand, and she frowns at him. For several long moments, they stand in silence, his fingers long enough to touch the pulse point on her wrist. He feels it now and again, softly. Curious, he presses his fingertips against it.

"You are _filthy_," she says, but he isn't. He made sure before coming here that he is wearing clean clothes. But maybe that isn't what she's referring to. Maybe it's the way his hand has traveled to her elbow, his fingers gentle, his intent clear. Maybe it's the way her breathing has changed in response, and how she cannot hide the bright pink flush of her cheeks now that her face is bare.

He backs her against the wall, places his other hand on her hip. She does not resist.

She's beautiful, he realizes as she places her hands on his chest. She is actually pretty beneath all that make-up and with her hair loose, a warm brown that stops just past her shoulders. For the first time, her colors make sense to him, the blue and brown and pale, pinkish white. He understands them, and he understands her with a clarity that surprises him as he presses his lips to hers.

Crane would not begrudge him this, would he? For him to help her move on, to see her happy if only for a moment, because Haymitch wants that now, and he wants her. He wants her because he has seen her as a genuine human being for the first time in all their years as reluctant workmates. He wants her to top suffering the way he did, and he wants to be the one who rescues her from that, who pulls her out of the torment of the memories and the thoughts of what could have been.

Her hands press hard against his chest, and he breaks away in time for her to say quickly, "Wait."

She lifts a hand to her ear, glances at the dresser against the far wall, and he understands at once. She wears flower earrings now, her favorite kind, much nicer than those blue beetles from before. But rather than let her go to them, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wristwatch. He holds it out for her to see, waits for her to get the message of his pantomime.

"What time is it?" he asks, his voice breathy and low.

"Midnight," she answers.

He runs his thumb over the glass face of it, stopping at the dial on the side. "Then no one is awake," he says, and he presses the dial as he puts the watch away.

She is soft, hands delicate and unmarred by hard labor, by murder and blood. Once, he overheard her telling Portia about a new skin polish she'd had done, and he wonders at that for just a moment, until her fingers find a scar from twenty-five years ago and he remembers the wound for one awful, searing second. She is warm, waking him from a quarter century of detachment, the spring sunlight and all its flowers, the ones she loves so much that she must wear them every day, a reminder of what beauty is in a world that is ugly and dead. She is so very alive, and she clings to him, natural fingernails digging into his skin, silent encouragement that he understands better than anything she could possibly say, any list of instructions, any decrees against them or life itself.

She is breathless, gentle as she touches his cheek and memorizes his face from so close. She traces swirling pattern against his skin, lingering where he hasn't shaved since yesterday.

"This changes everything," she breathes, fixing her gaze on his.

He takes her hand, covers it with his, inhaling deeply when he feels just how small hers is. "Only some things."

He sees her eyes begin to fill with tears before she squeezes them shut, nodding. "Important things."

"Yes."

"You should go," she says, but she doesn't let him, tucking herself against him as if he can hide her from the world.

He will certainly try.

* * *

_ii._

"I have to stay."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"They'll kill you. Hell—they'll do _worse_."

Effie shakes her head, sniffing. "I have to protect my family. If I go, _they'll_ be the ones they go after."

Haymitch curses, and she knows she has won this. After all, he understands what it is for innocents to suffer in one's place. She can see him thinking of that now as he paces slowly in front of the muted television screen. They are alone, Portia gone to watch the Games with the prep teams, having said without saying so that she knows where Cinna has gone, that he will never return.

"They've already captured me, Haymitch," she says, taking his hand when he passes her on his walk. He stops but does not look at her. "Don't you see? I have attachments. It doesn't matter where I go. I will always lose something."

He flinches at the bare truth of her words, but he does not pull his hand away. The impulse is there, certainly, in the way he cannot relax while she is touching him. Then, so swiftly it frightens her, he pulls her to him and holds her close.

She shuts her eyes tight, sliding her arms about his waist, and whispers against him, "I'm sorry."

"This isn't your fault," he says into her wig.

"It isn't yours, either."

He doesn't believe her, she knows, and he holds her tighter as if that will fix this and convince him that she is right.

"You have to go," she tells him softly, wishing it weren't so true. "They'll be ready soon." Onscreen, she sees the alliance start to work on their plan.

He pulls away, placing a hand on her cheek. She leans into it and shuts her eyes halfway, wanting to lose herself in this but not wanting to miss a single moment of what little time they have left before he must be far away from here.

"Whatever they do to you," he begins, but he stops himself, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head. "You blame me for everything. If they ask you things, tell them it was my idea. Tell them I blackmailed you."

"Idiot," she says softly, smiling. "It'll never work. Besides, I can take it. Whatever they do, I can withstand it."

He doesn't give either of them the chance to dwell on that, giving her one final kiss. It may very well be their last, and they both know it, and it is in that moment that she begins to feel afraid.

When he goes, she showers, eats a good meal, drinks a little wine just to remember the taste of it. She lies down on the couch and tries to sleep, but she cannot look away from all the tributes' faces, all those faithful rebels, and Katniss and Peeta, ignorant of the truth to the end.

* * *

_iii._

They had trained for this. They had known from the very beginning that any one of them might end up in the clutches of the Capitol. Heavensbee had gathered intelligence reports from his myriad sources and told them, sparing them no details, all the horrible things they could expect to face if captured.

They had rehearsed, done the best they could with what they had, increasing their tolerance for pain with reverent care for one another and deep respect for the reality that there would be some among them who would have to suffer. Effie remembers a time when Seneca restrained her while Cinna played the part of a monster. She had felt a flicker of fear, but it had been brief because she knew she could trust them both.

She now wonders why they wasted the time at all, because nothing they could have done could prepare them for what it really is to be held down while someone rips her nails out one by one, to be tied down as shocks race through her and steal her breath away, to have someone's hand tight about her throat while he uses her body with not a flicker of a thought for the fact that she is human, alive, worthy.

"You are nothing," they say to her, striking her face, shoving her to the ground. "Disgusting traitor. You are filth!"

"Tell me names," some say to her, twisting their hands in her hair and forcing her to look at them. "All you need to do is tell me names, and you will no longer be a traitor. Don't you want to be a hero? Wouldn't you like to be praised and worshipped for the rest of your life?"

She stares at them a moment, manages a frail smile, and says, her voice raw and cracking, "Euphemia Trinket."

They don't know that she already is a hero, that she feels like one, and that Cinna is a hero. Portia is a hero, and so are Peeta's prep team, and so is Seneca, the first to die back when he could have gotten away with living longer, even if only a little bit. When she dies, they will all greet her in the afterlife.

Outside, bombs are falling, the explosions faint vibrations she can feel along the floor of her cell. Everything will be over soon.

Effie smiles.


	4. Rescue

_i._

It's Haymitch who finds her. She lies naked on the floor of her cell, pale skin smeared with purples and greys and muddy reds, its smoothness marred by swelling and deep, long cuts. His anger multiplies tenfold, but there are no Peacekeepers on whom to take it out. The fighting is over, for the most part. The rebels have won.

He calls for medics and goes to kneel by her side, feeling her neck for a pulse, sighing with relief when he finds it, weak and rapid but there.

He stays until they come for her, wrap her gently in clean sheets, take her away on a stretcher after determining she will survive the trip. He hates them for that, for their grim practicality, but he is grateful that she has passed their quick examination.

They almost lose her that first night, a long and sleepless affair for him, what with the resuscitation efforts and the worry over Katniss, the news of her sister's death, the reality of who sent the parachute bombs. He considers stealing sedatives from any one of the doctors or nurses walking to and fro with vials of them. There are so many wounded here, no one would miss just one vial, one syringe, would they?

But the greatest comfort he has is that they have survived. Katniss is alive despite all the chaos she has been through, Peeta is coming back to them after the cruel hijacking of his months in the custody of demons, and Effie had stayed true to her word, she had withstood the mighty tempest reserved for traitors. They had survived where his family and his girl hadn't twenty-five years ago, and he drinks to that, to the gut-wrenching flicker of happiness that burns in his veins when it comes to him.

Coin twists her lips into a nasty grimace when word gets to her. Ostensibly, she has stopped by intensive care to check on Katniss' condition. When she goes to Haymitch, he knows the truth. This woman is not who she seems. He has served under her out of convenience and necessity. He even allowed himself to believe that she might change as time went on and the rebels claimed victory.

In the little waiting room by the ICU, her posture alone confirms his first impressions. She is not to be trusted. She allowed innocent children to die. She is Snow, in her own way.

"Trinket must die, Abernathy," she tells him, no frills and laces, not even the customary, militaristic greetings he has become used to. "As a prominent figure in the atrocities of the old regime, she must be executed for her crimes."

"They're my crimes, too," he growls, curling his hands into fists, wishing for a bottle. "They're Heavensbee's crimes. They're the crimes of your _allies_, and she is one of them."

"Heavensbee will be pardoned due to his active involvement in the rebellion, and you were never to be tried at all. But Trinket has done nothing to merit special consideration, and I will not allow a single ounce of sympathy for those people to pass through our minds."

"Not without a trial," he says, and he does not look away until Coin has turned and left.

When he tells Heavensbee, the former Gamemaker merely shakes his head. "I had hoped she would have waited to tell you after the dust had settled, perhaps after Katniss comes to and you have less on your mind."

"Coin isn't the type of person who gives a shit for how other people feel, for what they're dealing with," Haymitch says. He doesn't need to give specifics. For all that Heavenbsee had a hand in killing children for sport and entertainment, he had committed those murders because he'd had no choice. Coin has no such excuse. She'd had options, and she had gone the route of a coward.

"I will not rest until we secure Effie's pardon," says Heavensbee.

Haymitch's agreement is implicit.

* * *

_ii._

"Everything has changed," Effie breathes, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at him.

"Only some things," Seneca tells her. His smile is not sad, but it is subdued. Is that because he is at peace, or because he is resigned to what has transpired since he was taken from them, from her?

The endless blue of his eyes is deep and bright and achingly familiar, and it cuts new wounds into her bones. "Important things."

"Yes."

She swallows, sniffs, brushes tears roughly from her face as guilt fills her nearly to bursting. "So blame me for it. Yell at me. Tell me how much you hate me!"

He shakes his head, even that movement tranquil, like all of him in his pristine suit of darkest blue. "I could never blame you for living."

"I don't want to live anymore," she whispers, but that isn't true. She glances over her shoulder as if she can see it there, Panem with its fresh rubble strewn with the bodies of all who gave their lives in the rebellion, no matter their allegiance. It's a broken world, and she is a broken soul, but they can rebuild, she knows, and she can heal, she thinks.

He takes her hands, but she pulls them free and embraces him, hiding her face in his chest. He smells like he used to, like lavender and oak, and he is as gentle as he used to be.

"I can't," she tells him, shutting her eyes. "I can't."

The sunlight of this perfect meadow blinds her even as she turns her face away. It burns away the comfort his arms afford her, his scent, the fresh grass and the cool breeze. She is not standing, not leaning against him; she is lying down in a small bed, white sheets draped over her, and there is a needle in her arm and a mask over her mouth and nose.

There is no blue in this room save what she sees when she closes her eyes, that crystal clear memory of forgiveness and trust.

She must keep living. She must do her part to ensure that history does not repeat itself so long as she is able to keep breathing.

She almost forgets how to do even that when she sees Katniss again.

Plutarch had said to her, "She looks so desperately lost most days," and he had told her how the rebellion had been ended. He had asked her to resume her old role for Katniss' sake, and for her own sake, because as long as she has a task, Coin cannot touch her.

Katniss looks almost normal in her robe, but Effie sees the truth in her grey eyes, how they look like clouds in an overcast sky that threatens rain but never follows through. For her sake, Effie smiles, allows herself to pretend nothing has changed between the Quell and this moment, that she has not endured unnamable horrors in the halls of hell, that Katniss has not had so much taken from her since the day she volunteered for her precious little sister, a hero in her own right.

This big, big, big day becomes an awful, frightening, terrible nightmare, because Katniss' arrow does not miss its mark. In time, Effie will understand the change in target, but for now, this is not on her schedule, and her clipboard is her only defense against the flood of people, the ever-shifting current of confusion, places to go, people to see. The chaos robs her of clarity, but Heavensbee finds her soon enough. He leads her away, confesses that this was not in anyone's plans, and tells her that whenever Katniss has acted outside of the rules, it has worked for the best.

"I trust her," Effie says to him, breathing deeply, her heartbeat frantic as the execution plays in her mind over and over. She trusts her to hell and back, and she nearly says as much during the trial.

Somewhere along the line, after Haymitch and Katniss have gone back to District Twelve, Effie is officially pardoned. Heavensbee off-handedly suggests televising the moment Paylor makes the pronouncement, and Effie senses that he actually would like that. She understands, of course. This fledgling nation needs to know what is happening in their seat of government, deserves to know who is for them and who against them. Perhaps they even need to see the shame of the people who took such pleasure in violating their privacy and displaying gruesome fights as if they were mere programs, scripted dramas.

He doesn't do that, though. She doesn't have to tell him no for him to see that she cannot bear it.

* * *

_iii._

"You three are all I really have anymore."

"Same," Haymitch says. He takes her hand from the handle of her bag, his hold loose but secure.

"I couldn't stand to see you go. When Peeta left, I bought my ticket right away, and I would have gone without packing if I could be sure there were shops here now for me to get new clothes when I arrived."

It smells like rain. The scent drifts in through the open windows, on a breeze that promises a rainstorm as it plays with her hair. No more wigs, no more make-up, no more pretending. She is really living now, or if she isn't, she is at least beginning to breathe.

She meets his gaze, lacing her fingers through his. "Do you ever just want to stop?" She does not elaborate. She does not need to.

"Every day," he tells her. He places his free hand on her cheek, and she shuts her eyes, and the sting of tears begins to fade.

"You saved my life," she confesses, but he will never know how true that is. He saved her from certain death from her wounds and from execution at the hands of the rebels, and those are quantifiable facts. They can count the hours it took her to recover, the long weeks of abuse, the days of arguing and counter arguing with Coin and her agents, and later with Paylor. But there is no way to demonstrate the pull of that perfect meadow and the blue she had once believed she would lose herself in forever, the sweet warmth of forgiveness and perfect, absolute trust.

In Haymitch's arms, she finds those things, too, but they are different, heavier with other memories, with deeper guilt. What's more, he understands the things she cannot say about her captivity, the things she wants to tell him but she cannot begin to express, not yet, not when she sees them so frequently in her dreams and feels them so intensely in her flesh.

He sees things, too, and he wakes fighting them, his instincts still sharp after all these years since he left the arena. Sometimes he wakes when she is locked away and in the hands of someone terrible. He cannot kill those men, but he holds her as she shakes, and slowly, the will to live comes back, flooding through her veins like the medicine from the hospital, dulling the pain until she is strong enough to endure without it.

Only she will never have to be without this, because he is here, and this is home for them both.

Outside, there is a Meadow. She never saw it in its former glory, but she can see what it will become. She buys seeds when the next train comes in and plants them there in memory of the people buried in that earth. They will bloom and fill the air with color and life, celebrating survival, singing songs of the happy times the people beneath them had, the brief moments of perfection that they had stumbled upon and held tight to as the storm of the rebellion built and as it crashed all around them. The flowers will speak of the meadow beyond sunset and stars, where the weather is perfect and everyone, everyone who goes there is filled with endless peace.

One day, she will go there. One day, everyone she holds dear in her wounded heart will be there with her, hands joined in the perfect peace they touch now and again when she hears them laugh, when she sees them smile, when they hold each other tight and swear, wordless, that they will never let go.

"This is victory," Effie says as she presses the earth around a new seed. Haymitch pushes a lock of hair from her face, holds it back lest the wind play with it again. "This is living."


End file.
